Given Up
by thefirstaider
Summary: A short one shot of how Murtagh met Tornac. He is about three in this fic, but it isn't from his perspective. Murtagh would never win his father's affection, but his admiration would be a fitting substitute.


He had long since given up trying to win his father's affection.

What was the point? Murtagh could not remember a single time when his father had shown anything but contempt for him. Despite all that had been said, he still yearned to prove himself. To win his father's affection. The same tie that bonded a dog to a cruel master.

"Focus." The gentle tone of the teacher's voice startled him from his reverie. Murtagh started, the small sword he was holding slipping from his grip. His new teacher looked at him disapprovingly. The master swordsman standing before him had a stocky build; muscled arms criss-crossed with pale scars, testament to the years spent practicing his craft.

"Your father has employed me to teach you swordsmanship." The man's accent was difficult to place. It had an odd melodic lilt to it, perhaps from the Palancar valley? But his accent wasn't grating like theirs, it was soft and clipped. "You will learn from me, and at the end of every month you will show your progress to someone who will report back to him. Pick up your sword."

Bending low to the ground, Murtagh picked up the sword. The sword itself was tempered steel, barely longer than a dagger. The leather of the hilt was textured so that it gripped the hand of its wielder, but to Murtagh it just felt uncomfortable.

The teacher looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

"That isn't the sword for you. You're unbalanced and you would never be able to fight properly with it." Crossing the room swiftly to a wall laden with weapons of every shape, size and description, the man gently lifted one from its resting place.

"Try this. It's a bit longer than you're used to I'd wager, but I think it'll suit you better." Murtagh exchanged swords with his teacher in silence.

"Well you seem to be handling this one better."

Murtagh cast a critical glance at his teacher, was the man toying with him? He had done nothing this 'lesson', only standing up and holding his sword, and yet the teacher was already passing judgement on what would 'suit him better'.

What really annoyed Murtagh was that the teacher was_ right_. This sword did feel better, more balanced. He could fight with this sword. The teacher was watching how he was handling the sword. Murtagh self-consciously swung his sword down around his knees.

"Right, so show me what you know so far."

Swinging the sword up in front of his face, Murtagh gripped the hilt with both hands.

"What is your name?"

Murtagh looked up. His father hadn't even told the teacher his name. Murtagh had a slight panic attack. With the impossible logic of a three year old, Murtagh believed that his father had forgotten his name. Or maybe his father just didn't care. Murtagh's hand flew unconsciously to his neck, where the tip of a newly healed scar was visible.

"ummmm…Murtagh." He croaked, voice harsh from disuse. He paused momentarily. "Didn't my father tell you?"

"No. I haven't actually met your father, he sent someone to find me. I'm Tornac."

Murtagh dug the tip of his boot into the floor, letting his sword fall back by his side. Tornac gently tapped him on the arm with his sword, trying to get his attention again. Murtagh flinched and backpedalled. Tornac's brows drew together.

"Fast on your feet." Tornac remarked, "That's good, you'll be a better fighter because of it."

Unsure of how to take the compliment, Murtagh simply nodded. '_Why is he being so nice to me?"_ Tornac swung his own sword up in to a ready position.

"Show me how you hold your sword."

For the better part of the afternoon, Tornac corrected Murtagh's stance, sword grip and posture. Unaccustomed to the warm, genial presence of his instructor, Murtagh mimicked anything and everything Tornac did. As he gained confidence in moving his sword, Murtagh moved with more vigour, feet skipping over the floor as Tornac pushed him through various drills.

As the sun began to set, the lesson ground to a halt.

"You're learning fast." The easy compliment made Murtagh's cheeks flush with pleasure. "You'll be a great swordsman one day."

Murtagh stood straighter, squaring his narrow shoulders. His other tutors had never had anything but criticism, and his father only ever insulted him. "Weak" and "Useless" being the insults of choice, and Murtagh had never believed anything else. He could never win his father's affection, but his admiration would be a fitting substitute. He was going to excel at this if nothing else, prove to his father that he was not weak or useless. Murtagh was going to prove him wrong.


End file.
